


a love song from the witching hour

by CyberpunkDreamland (scarletprophesy)



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Emotions, Falling In Love, Genji Shimada is a Little Shit, Getting Together, Hand Jobs, Intimacy, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Coital Cuddling, Power Play, hand holding, romantic handjobs, very erotic hand holding not safe for tumblr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-02
Updated: 2019-01-02
Packaged: 2019-10-02 18:35:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17268923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarletprophesy/pseuds/CyberpunkDreamland
Summary: So what if Hanzo was just himself, sullied by the blood of his brother and the deaths he had caused and the blood dripping down from the hands of his ancestors. So what if McCree was the sun.





	a love song from the witching hour

Since the very first day in Gibraltar Hanzo had wanted McCree. Jet-lagged and fresh off the ship, he was one of the first people Hanzo met in the watchpoint. Genji dragged him in (in this case, Hanzo was "what the cat had dragged in") and introduced him to everyone in the kitchen as breakfast was being served.

Hana Song was tiny and intimidating all at once. Brigitte Lindholm was sweet, and so was that cat of hers. Lucio was almost as tiny as Hana but he made up for it in energy, kindness, and noise output levels. Even then, even with people who literally dressed themselves in head to toe neon with actual LED accents, McCree shone the brightest of all in that room.  He was taller than Hanzo, but not by much. His skin was dark, his hair was unruly, his eyes were sharp, and he was ruggedly handsome in a way that Hanzo could never have imagined encountering in Japan. 

McCree shook Hanzo's hand, all Southern charm and smooth sonorous voice and teeth like a military cemetery and Hanzo found himself flustered for the first time in the last 27 years. The low rumble of his voice went on to feature heavily in Hanzo's fantasies. 

The rest of that morning was spent in a daze, watching McCree ooze charm, as the other Overwatch agents who drifted in and out flocked to him like moths to a flame. Genji sat next to Hanzo at the table and occasionally nudged him and wagged his eyebrows - it did not escape his brother that Hanzo was staring at McCree like a snack. 

May the ancestral Dragon spirits save us from overly observant brothers. 

As time went on Hanzo got more comfortable with watching from the outskirts - he didn't really find the idea of jumping into the middle of life at the Watchpoint appealing. Watching McCree be the life of almost any occasion, loud and boisterous, was Hanzo's favorite hobby and if he were honest with himself he hid it poorly. Sometimes he would catch McCree looking back at him, and Hanzo fancied that maybe there was something more than just a former black ops agent checking the room for threats out of habit and finding one in him. 

Nothing could have prepared Hanzo for this. 

Winston, in a peanut butter induced stroke of genius, assigned McCree and Hanzo to work on uncovering Talon influence in the old Overwatch. This meant long nights, dusty files, corrupted and heavily censored documents, and McCree's intensity concentrated on the task at hand. Hanzo wasn't sure what he'd expected from a man who dressed  like a cowboy in a place where there was no use for cowboys. McCree proved himself to be sharp, clever, and perceptive. The familiarity with the Blackwatch mode of operations helped but Genji had been part of Blackwatch too and he was not nearly as useful for the task before them. 

(When Hanzo once asked Genji about some technicalities regarding supply movements, Genji had shrugged and said, "I don't know, I was in a lot of pain, and really just there to kill people," and Hanzo resolved to never bring it up again.)

Months of teamwork and poorly concealed desire, of late nights spent poring over old Blackwatch data pried from servers in long forgotten bases. Months of terrible news and missions not gone according to plan, of stakeouts in the cold with cigarillo smoke rising up to the moon and stars. Months of claustrophobic motel rooms, of rough plane rides, of staring into eyes the color of the darkest amber, of arguing about ethics and morals and responsibilities. Fighting together, killing together... Building a better world, bullet by bullet and arrow by arrow. 

As Hanzo and McCree spent more and more time together, brought closer by their work, by their complementing skill sets, the nights they spent planning their next move on Talon, a quiet sort of intimacy grew between them. They'd share bottles of whatever alcohol they could find, and share whatever regrets they found at the bottom of each bottle. McCree became an ally, a friend, someone who understood that the blood and sins don't ever go away. 

That is not to say that Hanzo stopped finding him attractive. In fact, quite the opposite. Hanzo wanted McCree, wanted him in a way he hadn't wanted anyone in a very long time. He found himself wanting to reach out and trace those strong muscles and brush his fingers though McCree's hair, wanting to kiss him until they were both dizzy and desperate for it, wanting to kiss every inch of his body and shatter him. One time, McCree wore a shirt that said "Save a horse, ride a cowboy" in a garish western font, and Hanzo had to keep himself from reaching out and doing just that. 

And honestly, McCree was far more than anything Hanzo could have imagined. If you'd told the Shimada scion that he would one day fall in love with a real life cowboy from the wild American West, a man who could charm anyone he met despite the garish belt buckle and the bloody cowboy hat and the spurs, he would have ordered them shot and tossed into the river. But how do you not fall in love with a man who stopped to pick up a wounded stray cat who'd gotten caught in the crossfire and brought it back on the ship during a rushed getaway? 

(And, by Angela's sigh and a tired "Again, Jesse?" Hanzo could only guess this wasn't the first time. Brigitte and Hana were very happy to get another cat. His name is Mochi. He's very anxious. Hanzo related. ) 

Basically, working with Jesse McCree and not propositioning him took every ounce of self control that Hanzo possessed. There was no way, no way at all a man like Hanzo could deserve to touch someone like McCree, someone who always shone brighter than the sun in every room he was in. There was no way that he'd want Hanzo.

He was wrong in thinking so.  

It started one evening, perched on bar stools on the corner of the kitchen counter, with their fingertips lingering over each other's; just the two of them, a bottle of whiskey, and a printout of the latest data they were able to glean from Talon servers. They were no closer to answers than they were the day before, or the week before. Frustration was starting to set in, as was a thick, syrupy tension that made Hanzo feel restless. 

He forced his eyes to focus on the data before him, the encryption broken but still in code. 

McCree reached out, deliberate, and dragged the fingers of his flesh hand over Hanzo's calloused palm, up, over the veins and the thin skin of his wrist, and Hanzo held his breath, almost too afraid to look away from their hands on the table, the golden brown of McCree's skin contrasting against Hanzo's pale skin. 

"Don't you think we've done enough running?" McCree asked, and Hanzo forced himself to look up, to look into the cowboy's eyes, and he could feel his own hands begin to shake. 

"Is there such a thing as enough?" Hanzo asked. McCree took his hands in both of his, warm flesh and cold metal, and Hanzo's heart skipped a beat.  

"Only you can tell me that, archer," McCree said. "Have you ever thought about this?" 

Hanzo blinked, confused. "This?" He asks. 

McCree nods. "This. Us. Cause lemme tell you, I think about it plenty enough." 

"Are you asking me to sleep with you?" Hanzo asked with an inquisitive tilt of his head. The hands holding his tighten. 

"For a start," McCree replied, easy and light, as if he was asking if Hanzo wanted a hot dog off the grill, and not to shatter and rebuild every foundation they stood on. "Maybe sleep next to me, too, sugar. Would prefer it if you slept next to me every night." 

Though at this point it would be stupid to pretend that there was nothing here. Hanzo's cheeks were burning.

"We are not men who live simple lives," Hanzo said, but his traitorous hands could not let go of McCree's, the metal warming up against his flesh. "Nor are we men who live lives free of danger. This is something that could be used against us." 

"As the Miranda rights go, anything and everything can be used against you," McCree responded, and smiled a small, wicked smile that made something warm and liquid settle in the pit of Hanzo's stomach. 

Hanzo released one of McCree's hands, the flesh one; he ran his finger up McCree's arm, slow and light, teasing. "That's for arrests, cowboy, not... this." He wasn't going to call it a relationship, he wasn't going to name it. McCree's skin was rough, a little dry, and Hanzo wanted to feel all of it. 

McCree's smile grew wider. "I wouldn't mind if you arrested me, Agent Shimada," he said. Hanzo snorted at that. 

"You're ridiculous, Jesse McCree. I don't have any jurisdiction for arrests," he retorted, and in that moment, he decided, fuck it. Fuck all of it. So what if Hanzo was just himself, sullied by the blood of his brother and the deaths he had caused and the blood dripping down from the hands of his ancestors. So what if McCree was the sun. 

He leaned in, and he could smell the whiskey and the smoke on McCree's breath, could feel the heat of his breath, could hear the sharp intake of breath. He traced his finger back down McCree's (ridiculously thick) forearm, down to the wrist, then down to the palm of his hand. 

"I will confess," Hanzo said, and looked McCree directly in the eye, "I have thought about this. About you." 

McCree's face was a mask of calm, and Hanzo knew it well - he saw it every time just before the shooting began. He gently nudged McCree's hand to lay flat on the table, palm up. 

"I've thought about how ridiculous your belt buckle collection is," Hanzo said, his heart pounding, and his calloused fingertips traced over the life line on McCree's palm. Fractures in the life line. He once disguised himself as a fortune teller, and vaguely he remembered - broken life line means trauma, upheaval. Not that he believed in it, but with Jesse he could. "I've thought about your eyes, and not just about how you can see beyond what you should be able to... About how they change color when the sun falls just right," he continued. 

McCree's cheeks darkened, and he started to say something. Hanzo stopped him with a finger pressed to his lips. McCree's lips were dry, a little chapped. 

"I've thought about how infuriating you are when you're right," Hanzo continued, "I've thought about how the shadows themselves will bend and twist around you if you do not wish to be seen. And... and, I've thought about how good you look when you're about to kill eight men with six bullets."

McCree was still, very still. Hanzo cupped his jaw, the stubble sharp against the palm of his hand. "Is any of this what you've thought of?" he asks. McCree took a slow, shaky breath. 

"Damn, Hanzo, that beats any old confession I could have thought up, y'know," he said, and Hanzo couldn't resist smirking at that. "Listen, I ain't much, just an outlaw from Santa Fe, but if you'll have me..." 

Hanzo stroked McCree's cheek gently, and for a second just studied him. Sharp, clever eyes. There was no one with more beautiful eyes in the world. 

"Jesse McCree... I would be honored to have you," Hanzo said, and he felt McCree release a sharp exhale. "I would be honored to have you, in any way you wanted to share with me."

"Well, sugar..." McCree started, looking bashful, but Hanzo stopped him again. 

"Let me show you," he whispered, "Let me show you what a treasure you are." 

McCree nodded. 

Hanzo leaned in.

McCree leaned forward. 

Their lips met in the middle, unexpectedly light and chaste, as if both of them were asking questions all over again. Hanzo cupped McCree's cheek with his hand. McCree tasted like the cheap whiskey, cigarettes, and... Cinnamon? Apples? His lips were dry and chapped but they felt like heaven against Hanzo's. 

McCree deepened the kiss between them, tongues gently exploring, the smooth slide maddeningly slow. Hanzo pulled back, nipped at McCree's bottom lip, and the groan it got him from the other man made his soul ache with a feeling somewhere between embarassment, gratitude, and need.  

"C'mere, sugar," McCree whispered. Hanzo slipped out of his seat, stepped close to McCree, nudging his muscular thighs apart and pressing himself close, arms wrapped around McCree's neck. 

"Howdy," Hanzo said, with a teasing grin on his lips. McCree smiled back, a brilliant, sharp smile that crinkled his eyes and made his dimples pop. 

"Hola," he whispered back.

They stayed like this for a minute, just staring at each other. Hanzo felt himself drowning in McCree's eyes. He thought he'd die of the bone aching intimacy. McCree's massive hands slid down to settle at his waist, and Hanzo wanted more, craved it, needed to feel McCree's skin burning on his, but he didn't want to shatter this calm they have for just a second. 

A slow, shuddery exhale, warm against his skin. 

A heartbeat, pounding in his ears. 

Two bodies pressed together, frozen in time for just one second. 

McCree shattered that serenity, kissed him again, deeper, more urgent, more passionate, pulling him in closer, and Hanzo found no choice but to give himself over, to reply to his kiss in kind, trace the nape of McCree's neck with feather-light touch of shaky fingertips. McCree's left hand slid under the hem of Hanzo's shirt, frigid by comparison with his right, and the contrast made Hanzo gasp into the kiss in surprise. McCree grinned, slowly drawing his hand up Hanzo's lower spine, and the cold metal only serves to make the fire in the pit of Hanzo's gut burn hotter. 

Hanzo broke the kiss, nipped on McCree's lower lip. "The kitchen may not be the best place for this," he whispered. 

McCree hummed in agreement, and both his hands now were caressing the bare skin of his lower back at a maddeningly languid pace. "Where do you suggest?"

"My room is not far. I do not want to be... interrupted." 

A wicked grin lit up McCree's face, and it was glorious, perfect. "Lead the way, sugar." 

And so, Hanzo did, the twisting narrow hallways of the watchpoint deserted at this time, their footsteps echoing against the steel and cement of the walls, the files they'd been working on left behind on the kitchen counter, hastily pulled into a stack. Talon could wait until morning. Maybe someone else would do them a favor and do the work instead. 

It was not a long walk, but to Hanzo it felt like an eternity. He fumbled with the keypad of his door, hands shaky and the fingertips cold. The door finally slid open with a soft hiss, allowing them into the dark room, no lights save one nightlight by the bathroom door, weak and silvery blue. McCree was on him in a flash, kissing Hanzo as he pulled him through the door and guided them both towards the bed as soon as it opened, and the automatic locks clicked shut behind them. They moved together smoothly, as coordinated in this as they are on the battlefield, and Hanzo couldn't help but moan as the back of his knees met the bed and he fell back onto the soft mattress. McCree straddled him, and Hanzo's brain helpfully provided only cowboy riding jokes before McCree leaned down to capture his lips in another kiss. Hanzo could only tangle his fingers in McCree's hair, overcome with emotion and desire as McCree kissed him senseless, his tongue smooth and clever, lips gentle and yet demanding. 

Their bodies moved as if they'd done this dance a million times. McCree broke the kiss, seized both of Hanzo's wrists in his left hand, one after the other, and pinned them against the bed, above Hanzo's head, and Hanzo could only arch up helplessly. Could he break out of McCree's grip? Certainly, and he had when they were sparring many times before this, but the illusion of being powerless, of being held down for McCree's amusement, made a perverse thrill run through Hanzo's body like a series of electric shocks. McCree smirked down at him, the shadows of the room twisting around him, slow and languid. "Looks like I've caught myself a sniper," he drawled. "Whatever will you do, Mr. Shimada?" 

Hanzo met the challenge head on, looked up at McCree through his eyelashes and bit his bottom lip as he flexed his muscles, as if to test the strength of McCree's hold on him. It had the intended effect, McCree's eyes narrowing and his grip tightening as the cowboy leaned forward to put more pressure on his wrists, and the contrast between soft bedding and the unyielding steel of McCree's hand promises things Hanzo can't put into words, things that only make his blood burn in desire and anticipation. Hanzo bucked his hips up, rolling against McCree, and the pressure made both men gasp in pleasure. "I'll think of something, cowboy," Hanzo murmured in response, to egg him on. 

"Fuckin' tease," McCree huffed, but there was no harshness behind his words. With his right hand, he traced Hanzo's cheekbone, then slid his thumb along Hanzo's lower lip, and then lower, along the column of Hanzo's throat, and Hanzo's eyes closed for a moment, breathing hard and deep, and he could swear he never felt this aroused in his entire life, hard and aching. McCree's hand lingered at his throat, fingers loose around his neck. A promise, not a threat. Hanzo thrust his hips up again, and McCree bit back a curse. 

"Are you just going to look? Or are you going to, hm, do something?" 

"Hey, I can't help but admire a work of art," McCree replied, aiming for an easy tone, but Hanzo could hear he was affected, his voice husky and deep. It was... flattering, very flattering, to be the focus of Jesse McCree's sharpshooter attention, the pinpoint accuracy that claimed hundreds of lives around the globe now focused on him and only on him. 

Before Hanzo could dwell too long on it, McCree let go of his neck and was kissing him again, more urgent, and he closed his eyes, giving himself over to the sensation of lips and tongues and teeth. He wriggled lower down, and Hanzo could feel his hand pulling down his sweatpants low enough to reveal his dick. McCree's thick, calloused fingers wrapped around his length, and stroked, once, twice. Slow, exploratory, gentle. Hanzo hummed in pleasure into the kiss. 

He felt surrounded on all levels by McCree; physical, emotional, and spiritual. The touches became firmer, faster, with a rhythm designed to bring him closer to the edge, and even though it was the first time McCree touched him like this, he moved as if they'd been fucking for years, as if he knew Hanzo's body as well as he knew his own. 

Distantly, Hanzo was barely aware of the fact that he was trembling now, that he was whimpering into the kiss with every stroke, that McCree's grip on his wrists was so tight it was nearly painful. That McCree's body was tense above him. That McCree was rocking against him, gasping with every move. It was intoxicating like nothing else Hanzo ever experienced - stronger than the finest liquors, or the most expensive mind altering substances - and Hanzo wanted it to _never end_ , but he also wanted _more..._

"God, please, please, _Jesse,_  please," he whispered into the kiss, his words shaky, and he felt so good he could _cry,_  and he wasn't even sure what he was asking for anymore. McCree understood, though, and his strokes sped up, and Hanzo could only groan loud and desperate, and buck up into the touch, begging over and over for release, until the feedback loop of pleasure took over him and swept him off into oblivion. 

When Hanzo finally managed to open his eyes, he was blessed with the image of McCree sitting in his lap, jerking off, eyes screwed shut in pleasure, and his brain nearly short-circuited for a moment. At some point, McCree's let his wrists go. He shook his head to clear it, and reached out to wrap his fingers around McCree's dick, stroking, and McCree moaned loud, shameless, as he thrust forward into Hanzo's touch. Hanzo caressed McCree's hip with his free hand, and worked his length with a firm touch, brushing the thumb of his hand over the head of McCree's penis on every stroke. 

"Look at me, Jesse," he murmured, and McCree opened his eyes, looked down at Hanzo, and his eyes burned with desire. "You're gorgeous like this," he whispered.

There was nothing more beautiful in the world than Jesse McCree throwing his head back, his spine arched in the throes of an orgasm. 

Afterwards, they coiled around each other, limbs tangled together, their bodies loose and sated and _relaxed_  in a way that Hanzo suspects neither had been for years. They could talk more tomorrow. The important things, they'd already said. 

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the holiday gift exchange for DrakonaNyx. I hope you like it! 
> 
> Big thank you to Lex Luthor and to Robo Cryptid for looking at this and letting me know where additional butter needed to be applied to lubricate readability.
> 
> title from "a love song from the witching hour" by the slow dancing society - listen here: <https://slowdancingsociety.bandcamp.com/track/a-love-song-from-the-witching-hour>
> 
> since the tumblr exodus please find me on twitter at <https://twitter.com/PunyGod1185>


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